


the thing under the bed

by naruhoe



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M, Masturbation, Monster!AU, Teacher!Mako, monster!jamison, tagged as updated
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-05
Updated: 2017-11-07
Packaged: 2019-01-28 19:58:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,945
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12614288
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/naruhoe/pseuds/naruhoe
Summary: Mako didn't scare easily. The night did not frighten him, nor the stories he used to hear as a child. Bloody Mary, vampires that came down upon children in the night, and the like. Urban myths were just that: Myths. Neither did the threat of physical violence, blood, bodily fluids, or even death, though thought of the latter always left him with an uneasy feeling. Despite this, he could remember the first time he'd been truly afraid with perfect clarity.Monster!AU Mako/Jamison. Mako's just trying to live his life, and Jamie desperately needs somebody to believe in him.





	1. gone fishing

Mako didn't scare easily. The night did not frighten him, nor the stories he used to hear as a child. Bloody Mary, vampires that came down upon children in the night, and the like. Urban myths were just that: Myths. Neither did the threat of physical violence, blood, bodily fluids, or even death, though thought of the latter always left him with an uneasy feeling. Despite this, he could remember the first time he'd been truly afraid with perfect clarity. 

It had been nearly 35 years ago, when he was a boy of 13 years walking in the sand of the island's South Beach. Dusk was beginning to fall, and his foot had stubbed against something half-buried in the sand. According to all reason, he should have kept walking, but he'd felt almost compelled to crouch down and dig the object from the sand. Wrapping thick fingers around it, he'd pulled whatever-it-was from its resting place. At first, he couldn't quite process what he was seeing, but a second later, it became evident that he was holding what was clearly a jawbone, teeth and all. It looked distinctly human, stained with some dark substance- blood, he knew instinctually -and bleached an off-white by the sun. It hardly weighed anything, yet was heavy with implication.

Horrified, he'd dropped the thing to the sand with a soft 'whumph', taking a step away from the gory thing. This wasn't what had scared him so, however. An instant later, he'd heard uneven footsteps accompanied by the sound of a little tune being whistled.

_'do, re, mi, fa, so, la, ti, do-'_

Again, he was compelled to look in that direction. In the distance, some ways down the beach, two pinpricks of light appeared as if from thin air from the approaching twilit front. Mako could have sworn they were eyes, and for one horrible instant, could not look away. But he'd managed to break from his trance, tripping over his feet (even then, they had seemed too large for his body) and fleeing all the way home, the whistling following him every step of the way.

_'do, re, mi, fa, so, la, ti, do-'_

He'd long since put the incident out of mind, the memory of fear enveloping him like some stifling cloud, but occasionally, he'd wake in the night with the image of bright orange eyes burnt into his retinas. But he hadn't had that particular dream in years. There were other things to worry about, after all. Tonight, it was fishing, or rather, "fishing".

Mako knew the fish had gone to sleep a long while ago, but he was just so _comfortable_. Here, in that very same cove from all those years ago, he relaxed on the sand, a fishing rod held loosely in one gigantic hand. The sun had fallen about half an hour ago, sparing the back of his neck from the constant burn of UV rays, and he simply hadn't had the presence of mind to force himself to his feet and home again. Nope. There's nothing waiting for him there anyways, besides a stack of half-graded tests, and he has no need to go to bed early tonight. Work starts Monday. 

He is a teacher, now. High school English and Lit.; Mondays through Fridays, with the exception of holidays and Summer Break. During his break, third period, he sips the bad coffee the school buys in bulk while grading papers. Endless papers. Homework, tests, quizzes, and essays, all without end. He wears  _a tie_. If only his younger self could see him. Mako's lip curls in faint amusement.

Suddenly, a sharp tug on the end of his fishing pole snaps him from his reverie. It is only by chance that he manages to hold onto the damn thing, fingers tightening in surprise. Even though he can't properly hold a dry erase marker, his big fingers are a boon, now, preventing the rod from sliding from his grip. Mako's eyebrows rise in surprise. A fish this late at night? Perhaps a catfish, or one of the other nocturnal breeds. Surprised, but not phased, he begins to reel in whatever's stuck on the end of his line. The thing on the other end jerks again with surprising strength. Mako's lips firm to a straight line, and he sets his jaw, hands tightening even more as he continues to reel. 

_clickk- click- clikk-_

One notch at a time, Mako reels the thing in. The pole bends, creaking ominously, and the faint worry that it will snap crosses his mind, but he jerks the pole towards himself and continues to reel. A soft grunt escapes him, powerful muscles engaging to bring it in. It's got to be a catfish. A big one. At last, the line is close enough to pull from the water with his bare hands, and he does so. 

Mako's lips curl into a perplexed frown, his brow creasing in suit as he takes hold of the object. It is a hat. Floppy brimmed, slightly tattered about the edges, and positively dripping with saltwater. The type farmers would wear to work in their fields or rice paddies. It looks... old. Ragged. Rubbish, if he's being completely honest. Were Mako more careless, he would throw the thing back into the sea, but it prickles at him to litter the ocean when he pulls fish from its waters whose tails have been trapped by those damn plastic soda rings. So he pulls the barbed hook from it with the wet, grating sound of fabric ripping and stands, resolving to toss it in the nearest trash. He's still wondering about why it was so hard to pull it from the ocean- maybe it got caught on some weeds or something -when he hears it. _It_. The whistling.

_'do, re, mi, fa, so, la, ti, do-'_

The terror comes rushing back immediately, He is a boy of 13 years old once more, and there are eyes in the dark and bones in the sand. Somehow, he manages to hold his ground. Mako stands like a statue, desperately fighting the instinctual terror that's come over him with every fucking fiber of his being. It is with another rush of icy terror that he realizes that there is a figure in the distance, and those same uneven footsteps have reached his ears. The whistling has not stopped. It continues unabated. Forcing himself to just  _stand his ground_ , Mako yells into the dark.

"Who are you??" He bellows. 

Even from the distance, he sees as the figure's head snaps up with one abrupt, unnatural movement. Twin flames regard him, and a shiver wraps itself around his spine. The whistling stops. Then, suddenly, the figure simply  _is not there_. Mako takes a step back in surprise. He is off-guard when a loud, sudden cackle splits the air next to his ear, and just like that, he is running, fleeing.

He doesn't remember the flight to the parking lot, but when he swings a leg over his bike, he realizes that he's left his pole lying there in the sand, and that the ugly, tattered hat is still clutched in his bloodless fingers. 

Fuck it.

His bike's engine roars to life, and Mako is gone into the night.

*  *  * 

He'd meant to throw it away. He really did, but even after taking the trash out, the floppy brimmed hat is still sitting on the table alongside the messy stack of now mostly-graded tests. And so it continued to sit for the rest of Sunday. Mako had gone back to the cove mid-afternoon, but the fishing pole was nowhere to be seen. Probably stolen. It doesn't bother him too much. He has others. Still, he was struck with the strangest feeling of unease as he looked over the sands again. They were empty, wiped clean by the tide. Whatever it was last night, he couldn't sense its presence now, if there even had been anything and he isn't going fucking crazy.

Just thinking about it is enough to chill him. It's humbling, shameful even. Reminds him of when he was a kid, the stories his grandmother used to tell with the greatest solemnity, like she actually believed them.

Mako doesn't go back to the beach that week. He doesn't realize he's avoiding it until Wednesday evening, when his eyes fall on the box of fishing tackle set carelessly on the surface of his workbench, and he remembers with a jolt those twin lights in the dusk, and the tall, rail-thin shadow he'd just glimpsed. He puts it out of his mind. Doesn't want to think about it.

But the following day, he finds himself humming 'do, re, mi, fa...' under his breath as he unlocks the door to his classroom, and jumps like an idiot, whirling around when he sees a lanky figure in the dark, reinforced glass of the door. It turns out to be a student who has questions about the transitive tense. Mako explains rather gruffly, and the boy practically flees down the hall as soon as he's finished explaining, a hurried "...thank you, Mr. Rutledge..!." trailing after him. Mako runs a hand across his face, calming his racing heartbeat. It's going to be a long day.

*  *  *

It  _is_ a long day, as it turns out. There's a fire drill 2nd period that nobody saw fit to inform the teachers about, and Mako just barely manages to avoid jumping. His rapidly-fraying nerves deteriorate as his 3rd period break is interrupted by a surprise visit from the English Dept Head, who apologetically explains that there's been another change to the curriculum for this quarter, as due to instructions from Administration, and several students attempt to text in his class. Of course, this is not to mention the meeting that takes up nearly all of his after-school time, and when he arrives back at his classroom, with 10 minutes to spare- look at that! -there are two angry-looking parents waiting by the door to his room. Yet another unscheduled parent-teacher conference.

It is an hour before he can leave. The parents, a middle aged woman with straight brown hair and her portly husband who appears fond of plaid, seem to be under the impression that it isn't their child's fault that they're failing the class. Who better to blame than the teacher. Mako explains the missing homework assignments as patiently as he can, even going so far as to pull up the student's progress on the computer, but even that leaves them skeptical. Mako just sits back in his chair to weather the tirade.

He leaves at 4:45 pm, thoroughly fed up. Traffic is horrible though tourist season is months away, and he is stuck in red light after red light. He's home by 5:10 pm. What should have been a 10 minute drive has turned into a 20 minute nightmare of construction zones and red lights. He parks The Hog in its alcove beside his house, running a fond hand across the custom-made steel tusks that protrude from the handles before he heavily climbs the porch and begins unlocking his door. The shadow from the cove has been all but forgotten, but it seems the gods are determined to remedy that.

Entering the house, he's treated to another surprise, one that he doesn't notice until he's set his bag down on the table and begun undoing his tie. There's a fishing rod resting innocently across the width of his table, next to that tattered hat. Mako freezes when he finally notices it, fingers motionless at the silk windsdor knot around his throat. It's the pole he assumed was stolen. How did it get here??

Moving slowly, the floorboards barely creak beneath his feet as he moves from the kitchen down the hall towards his bedroom, stealthy despite his bulk. Mako draws a breath, then silently steps into the room. It is empty. So is the guest room, and the bathroom, and the storage closet. There is nobody in his house; the doors are locked, yet the fishing pole sits on his table, evidence that someone was here, in Mako's house.

*  *  *

It is a four day weekend. Mako still has not gone back to the cove. The fishing rod has been deposited on his workbench, a sly reminder that Mako is not alone. He feels  _violated,_ somehow, knowing that the safety of his house has been breached, and has even gone to the trouble of changing out the front and back door locks. He doesn't own a gun. He doesn't need to. He'll take care of the next intruder himself.

Saturday evening, he swings a leg over the seat of his bike, taking comfort in the familiar way the steel frame settles lower as he sits down and the vibration of the engines, and drives to the bar. It's one of those places that have been around forever and will continue to be around for as long as he lives. The stool creaks beneath his weight when he sits. He's wearing civilian clothing, and his hair is tied up the usual way. It feels good not to have to wear a tie, and he finds his shoulders relaxing despite himself. 

It isn't long before the bartender arrives, a tall young woman in her mid twenties who flashes a warm smile at Mako.

"What can I get you?" She asks, all attentive smiles as she leans forward on her elbows.

"Just a beer." Mako says tiredly. He doesn't smile. He doesn't smile for much of anyone, anymore. It's easier that way.

*  *  *

It's a testament to how soft he's gotten when he has to wait an hour for the tipsiness a few beers had brought on to abate. He avoids any run-ins with the police, thankfully, making it back home without incident. He doesn't need a drunk driving charge added to his record. 

Mako absently rubs the tattoos decorating his knuckles. The ones on the left spell out 'R-O-A-D', while the three letters inked onto the back of his right read 'H-O-G'. He's sitting in the armchair in front of the telly, slightly tired and more than a little bored. There's something playing. Looks like commercials.

Tilting his head back slightly, Mako sighs, then pushes himself out of his chair, thumbing the button that blacks the screen. He smells like stale beer, and is in desperate need of a shower. The floorboards creak under him, but Mako doesn't really notice, used to the noise. Lumbering into the bathroom, he takes a minute to start the water before removing his clothes and placing the hair tie on the sink. It always takes a moment for the water to heat anyways. 

In the shower, which seems almost comically small, he's thorough, washing every inch of his inked, scarred-up body and scraping his shampooed fingers against his scalp. It's when he curls a hand around his flaccid cock to brusquely clean it as well that a curl of dull pleasure takes him by surprise. He's not really in the mood. His dick clearly doesn't feel the same, however, already beginning to harden in his hand. 

Mako grimaces, debating over what to do about it. Should he leave it as is, it will go away, but he really doesn't feel like lying awake in bed waiting for his erection to go down. Honestly, he doesn't even know what provoked the damn thing, but when he brushes a thumb across the peeping head, there's that pleasure again. What harm could it do? He hasn't done anything like this for... a while, anyways. And it _has_ been a while.

Mind made up, Mako licks across the palm of his hand, then firms his grip around his cock, teasing the head with his thumb for a few moments before stroking firmly, peeling back the foreskin and revealing the head to the steamy air of his bathroom. The friction abates after a few pumps, clear fluid lubricating the glide of his palm against the hardening shaft. It feels _good_ , more than good. Better than he'd expected. Mako's eyes slide closed after a few moments of this, other hand finding the tiled wall to brace himself against it as he searches for a face, an image to use to prolong this unexpected pleasure, but he's coming up with a blank, hand slowing. Feeling slightly desperate, he turns to the usual fantasies. Someone young- younger than him, at least -pressed up against a wall, face flushed with pleasure, their thighs arranged around his shoulders. Their flushed cock bounces against their stomach as he tongues at their hole. (Mako knows what he likes even if he seldom indulges.) Suddenly, the image changes, and he's looking over the pale, freckled expanse of a back and shoulders. His fingers are digging into their narrow hips; his groin is slapping against their ass, freckled as the rest of them, and they arch, the bumps of their spine prominent. That bleached head of blonde hair turns, and, suddenly, lantern eyes are regarding him, unnaturally sharp teeth bared in a feral grin ** _-_**

Mako comes all over his hand with a low groan, even spattering the adjacent wall with a few ropes of sticky white. He pumps himself through his release, then lets off, moving out of the spray of water to avoid stimulating his over-sensitive cock. For a minute, he just breathes, chest rising and falling as droplets of condensation run down the bubbled glass of the shower window. Uneasy curiosity makes him question the unfamiliar face he'd seen. Something about those eyes seemed weirdly familiar.

However, the water is turning cold, and he gets out of the shower after rinsing, his body warm and sated. His water bill is bound to be high this month, but he'll worry about it later. Mako pulls on a pair of briefs, and collapses into bed. He's asleep before his head hits the pillow.


	2. hush

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mako goes for a walk.

Mako is up by 7:00 AM, waiting by the coffeemaker for it to finish spitting out a bitter cup of the only thing that matters this morning. His internal alarm had seen him up by 6:30, brushing the awful morning stench from his teeth and watching his reflection carefully scrub over those tusk-like lower canines he'd been viciously teased for back in grade school.

At last, the whine of the coffeemaker abates, the last few drops making dark ripples in the surface of the liquid. Mako wraps a hand around the mug, an eye-watering shade of flourescent pink with the features of a cartoonish pig printed on the side opposite the handle, and lifts it to his lips. The mug was a gift from one of his students. He has other such paraphernalia littering both his classroom and his home though he is not sure exactly how the trend started.

He takes another sip, feeling a faint tingle in the back of his skull as the caffeine begins to work its magic. It's quiet, he realizes. This house. There is the usual sound of cars passing outside, and the normal birds, but within the house, it's almost totally still, like a sound bubble has descended upon it. He can hear a clock ticking away there in the other room.

_tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick—_

The coffee mug impacts the counter with a harder-than-necessary ' _chink_!', breaking the monotony of time ticking away. Mako grunts, scrubbing a hand across his face. His childhood home was never this quiet, always filled with the sound of the television, the click of the dog's nails against the floor, or the voices of his mother and father, usually angry. Silence used to mean peace, a night home alone, or a lull in the eternal battle between his feuding parents, but the silence he lives in now had become almost oppressive after so many years of routine. When did it happen? When did he become... _this_ ?? Has he not made his peace after everything that's happened? Thick fingers trace the scarring through the fabric of the shirt he's wearing, a pale, silver web that extends across his shoulder, all the way down to his right elbow and across his ribs. There are other scars to match, pale against his dark skin with age, including the ugly pinkish scar that runs down his temple, ending above his jaw and just missing his right eye.

Mako draws a deep breath. It seems like the first since he woke up this morning, maybe even in years. There's a phantom pain in his right shoulder, and he rubs at it with huge fingers, digging them into the meat of the flesh there until the ache is of a different sort.

* * *

He ends up going for a walk when the empty house proves to be too much. He's made a valiant effort to keep the silence at bay, turning on the TV, putting in an old CD, and even humming along, but in the end, it wasn't enough. It's about 6:00 PM, and halfway through his walk, it begins to rain.Though he spots several people scurrying back to their cars or closing the windows of their houses, it's not immediately evident why until the first rumbling roll of thunder.

But aside from the thunder, there's nothing. No wind, no trees creaking, or the sound of the waves far off. It's like the silence has followed him out of his own damn home, if only for the sole purpose of tormenting him.

A crack of lightning illuminates the sky with harsh white like some merciless god is looking down upon them, yet the rain is gentle as when it first started. Mako turns up a side alley, intending to loop back, but he's stopped in his tracks. Up ahead, stands an insubstantial figure. It's hunched over, head cocked slightly to the left as if listening for something. The silence presses in, making his ears strain for anything, a scrap of sound. Any reprieve from the absolute stillness that's surrounded him. He hears it. A faint series of notes, carried on the humid wind.

_'...mi, fa, so, la, ti-'_

This time, the tune fails to provoke an external response from him, save for a twitch in the muscles of his jaw. His hands, hanging by his sides, clench, release, and that is all. Mako stands his ground.

"You're not real."

The whistling stops immediately, and the apparition _twitches_. Large amber eyes blink open in the gloom that's fallen upon the alley, and its outline wavers slightly like heat waves over asphalt, the edges of a flame. Those lantern eyes are huge now, and bright, brighter than the street lights overhead. In contrast, Mako seems to stand taller, stronger, his feet planted firmly apart. He's a pillar of stone, stoic and utterly immobile.

"You're not real." He repeats, and this time, his voice is even, wholly self-assured.

Soundless, the apparition cringes back from an invisible blow. One of its hands rises pitifully, but unfortunately, Mako has no sympathy for it. "Leave." He growls. His voice is a threatening rumble. It's a promise of banishment. It pulses with subsonic vibration that shakes apart the surrounding silence. Some part of his mind is in shock. _This is surreal_. Yards away, the nebulous figure has held up both hands, and its head shakes side to side. _no, please-_ It takes a step forward, but halts abruptly when a guttural snarl forces itself out of Mako's throat.

In a last-ditch effort to convey something, the figure, blurred at the edges now like smudged graphite on the essays Mako grades, lurches forward at a frightening speed, hands outstretched. Mako catches the shadow by its wrist with ease, surprised by how _substantial_ the thing feels. Its fingers are long, slender, and taper to points, but he barely notices this detail. Those _eyes_ \- they're frightening in their intensity, brightening and dimming erratically, and the thing is digging its nails- claws, whatever -into his forearm, but Mako is _done_. Done with this fucking thing, done with the irrational fear that those 8 notes provoke, the stalking, the way it's frantically gesturing with its other hand, and the supernatural silence that's descended upon his life. He's done.

Merciless, his hand tightens around that skinny, stick-like wrist, inexorable as the jaws of a bear trap, and he squeezes until it _cracks_ like a fucking glowstick. The creature _shrieks_ , a shattered, wounded sound that's awfully reminiscent of a scared animal. Its entire outline shivers in and out of existence, the edges insubstantial.

"What the hell are you.??" Mako mutters, taken aback by the sound that's still resonating in his ears, but a second later, there's a flurry of movement, a stinging pain across the palm of his hand, and the thing rips itself free from the death grip he has on its wrist in utter silence, the tatters of a nightmarish whistle left shredded in its wake. It's gone an instant later, and Mako is left standing dizzily in the middle of that godforsaken alley as sound returns to his world, the rumble of the approaching storm front, and the breeze stirring the leaves of the trees overhead. There's a smear of sooty residue streaked across the palm of his hand. It's the only sign that he wasn't just imagining the whole encounter, and when he rubs his thumb and index finger against one another, it adheres itself to the pads of his fingers, marking them dark as his palm, which is not only stained with the strange substance, but also a line of brightest crimson. A long cut veers all the way across his palm, beginning to ooze blood. Another souvenir, Mako thinks grimly.

* * *

'This isn't right' is his first thought, upon opening the door to his home. And why isn't it right? Because there's a something curled up on the corner of his couch, and it looks like a fucking person. Two arms, two legs- wait, one leg. The right has been cut off just above the knee, ending in a scarred-over stump. They're also completely naked. Mako's gonna freak.

It takes a good moment of visible effort to calm himself down before he dares to look at the naked person curled on his couch. "You've got about two seconds before I call the police." Mako says flatly to the pair of wide amber eyes he can see peeking up above the cushion they're clutching to their chest one-handedly. He only gets another frightened look, and if possible, they clutch the pillow even tighter. Mako sighs, beginning to raise a hand to rub his face, but stopping when he remembers the cut slicing his palm open. He does it with the other hand, but it just doesn't feel the same.

"Look, I don't know how you got in here, kid, but you can't stay—" He begins, but there's no movement from the other, no sign that they're even comprehending what he's saying. They're just staring up at him with those big eyes. Mako stares back. And they're definitely a kid, by his standards, anyways. Early twenties at the oldest.

They're dirty. That's the first thing he notices. But beneath the layer of grime, it's clear that their skin is pale, far paler than Mako's natural tan. The same goes for their hair, which is also pale and also dirty, slicked back into greasy spikes that speak of the last time they had a bath. But he thinks they may be blonde beneath all the dirt. Covered in the same dirt as the rest of them, their face is all angles. A pointed chin, prominent cheekbones, and flyaway eyebrows make up the look, but those eyes are strangely familiar. 'What an odd color', Mako finds himself thinking before a bolt of pure dread seizes his chest.

"No..." He utters, dropping all pretenses and striding over to the naked, lanky body curled on his couch, which remains inert for all of 3 seconds when he gets his hands on them. With a bestial hiss, they begin writhing without care for modesty or dignity, and a spew of unintelligible curses erupts from their mouth, some language that Mako can’t fucking understand and honestly just doesn’t care to.

Howevee, hearing a pained cry from the kid, he immediately stops, his grip around their right elbow loosening. This turns out to be a mistake when the scrawny stranger takes the advantage and drives his elbow into Mako's gut with all the force he can muster, which is certainly more than Mako was expecting. Mako nabs him by the ankle just as he tumbles off the couch in the direction of the open front door. He doesn't hesitate to pin them to the floor face down, growling threats at the little shit to just keep still. The panicked wiggling persists regardless, the scared cursing muffled by the floor. 

Mako is out of patience. Uncaring of the panicky struggling, he seizes their right arm and lifts it up to the light. His heart seizes in his chest. There's a dark ring of bruising around the wrist, four distinct fingers and a thumb. The kid’s fingers are long and tapered, and a long cut runs through the middle of their palm, the exact same place as Mako’s cut. The thing is— _the thing is_ that they aren’t bleeding blood, but the strange, inky plasma that now stains Mako’s hands. From where they’re pressed ungracefully into the floor, still mumbling angry-sounding gibberish, Mako can certify that the amber eyes peeking at him from behind the kid’s naked, freckled shoulder are the exact same ones from the alley and the beach.

"What the hell.??" Mako breathes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oooooooooooo!
> 
> Hi guys!! Big shoutout to everyone who took the time to read or even leave comments! I'm so glad that some of you decided to check out el silbón (I hope he haunts your nightmares). But honestly, the positive feedback was way more than I was expecting and I can't even say how grateful I am to hear back from my readers. 
> 
> I'll try to update within the week. This was a bit of an early update because I'm just so excited to finally be writing this, but I hope you all enjoyed it, and I apologize for leaving it like this. We'll finally get some Mako-Jamie interaction next chapter. Again, I appreciate feedback so much, and it would mean the world to hear your thoughts.

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Halloween, you guys! (it's my favorite holiday aaa, sorry i'm a lil late!) This is my first work in Overwatch, and I'd honestly appreciate any comments you have for me!! Gimme that feedback!
> 
> I'll be deviating quite a bit from the actual legend in regards to what happened to Jamie to make him like he is, but I thought the idea of el silbon was really creepily awesome. Here's a link to the whistle if anyone wants to get spooky, and if you want to know more about the myth, google is at your fingertips (;  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=R2AWtkWDvb4


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